


Backstories and ficbits

by coveredinfeels



Series: Redeemer [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-18 17:35:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4714553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredinfeels/pseuds/coveredinfeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Additional pieces of backstory, or parts of the main story from different POVs,<br/>If you're here for the Adoribull, see Chapter 7</p><p>(some parts have already been posted on tumblr/all the ocs, all the time/tags may change as actual content gets added)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In me is the power of naming (Gize)

To look at, Gize's not that much different from any other Qunari mercenary. Big, not as much as Bull but still enough that most Tevinter-sized doors require her to duck down. Her horns sweep back, nearly straight, with a gentle curve just to the end. She keeps her hair trimmed short and her clothes are plain and serviceable. She wields a two-handed sword and resists Drusa's pleas to stick a skull on the hilt. Her tastes, though, are distinctly Tevene. When she swears, which is rare, it will be a soft _kaffas_. She knows her Corti and her Salvetti and any number of more obscure poets. She commiserates with Marcus on the difficulty of getting _garum_ this far south, in a war. Upon hearing the full story of Rilienus' arrival, her first comment is "But nobody would _actually_ poison a Marothius." So when Pavus' paramour asks her "So, you grew up surrounded by 'vints? What's that like?" she laughs. And answers, as is her wont, with Corti. " _In me is the power of naming_." 

* * *

Her father was a mage; she remembers him calling fire to his hands. When she is little, she knows her parents came to Tevinter to escape a monster (called "the Qun"), and stayed here to avoid other monsters (called "Templars"), and her name is, to the best of her knowledge, "girl".

Her father does tricks with his magic, and people throw coins. Her mother hits people who try to steal the coins. She is no Tamassran. The girl knows this because mother says it quite often; "I'm no Tamassran! You mind the girl!"

So she helps her father do the tricks; she dances with the flames and toddles about to pick up the coins. Sometimes she does tumbles and they laugh and give her more money ( _look at the little animal_ ) and her father frowns but takes the coins from her hands. The girl is helping.

Then, one day, the artist comes. He draws pictures, some of her father, mostly of her, and gives coins-- and then he comes again, and again, and he talks to her father, and gives her seed-and-honey cakes.

Father hugs her tight, and tells her she is to live with the artist now.

His name, he says, is Constanbulis Conchelli, although when she stumbles over it he allows _Con-Con_. Hers is to be _Gizella_. It is from a book.

"A little old fashioned," he says, petting the stumps where horns will be. "But a fine name for a young lady. And you must have a name fit for a young lady. _In me is the power of naming_ , after all."

It is years before she learns where the quote comes from; for a long while she believes naming things is genuinely a power that Con-Con holds.

* * *

Con-Con teaches her to read and write; teaches her poetry, the arts, etiquette. He hires instructors for the martial arts, for he says that people expect a Qunari to be able to fight, but if she must she should do it with style and grace.

She learns other things, too; other necessities. That she must keep her eyes down and stay close to Con-Con's heels when they are in on the streets of Minrathous. That she must not 'look aggressive', must not respond, even when someone talks past her, asking Con-Con if he fucks his pet. She is taller than Con-Con when this starts happening. She is also, by his estimate, fourteen.

He's always drawing her; the ones that sell, though, are the ones that barely look like her. Con-Con shrugs, as he does, _cannot be helped, my dear_. There are commissions he cannot afford to turn down, sometimes for reasons that are more than monetary. A qunari smashing a man's skull in with another skull, snarl on her face; he gives her curled rams' horns in these works, one broken off at the tip, perhaps, and she's not sure whether it's a request from the buyer or that he simply does not want to use her likeness in this way and this is the best he can do.

She begins to understand her memories of her father, his frowns; people who gave a toddling child coins if only she'd roll over, like a dog, and people who think her quoting poetry is a funny trick Con-Con taught her, and the woman at the library who sneaks up on Con-Con while he's sketching Gizella, and wants to know if _it_ can really read, and some of the books are quite valuable, you know--

At the time she's reading Talvar's _Dragon Rising, Triumphant_ , propaganda in rhyming form, for the sole purpose of studying the anonymous satirical work _Dragon Pissing, Flatulent_ , a direct response which has been banned on and off over the years and is often thought to be by Salvetti. Gizella has her doubts, and not just because Con-Con has written a paper showing evidence for his theory that the author was more likely Talvar's own sister.

Second-hand copies of this crap can be found in every bookstore in Minrathous. Gize should know, because over the years, her and Con-Con have been into pretty much every bookstore in Minrathous. _Valuable_? Please.

She lets Con-Con answer, though. "She'll be careful." he says, and shrugs at her again. _Cannot be helped, my dear_.

Gizella rarely argues with Con-Con, but sometimes she wonders if that's really true.

* * *

He has always been a delicate little man, but it seems to Gize when the illness comes on that Con-Con starts to shrink, to fold into himself. 

They move south, to a country house near Vol Dorma. His shaking hands can no longer hold a brush, struggle with tea-cups. Gizella hires a local woman to nurse him, for there is something unsettling about how small he looks under her hands.

They're a little wary of her, down here, but they speak to her like a person. Apparently it's not that uncommon; mercenary bands don't respect borders, there are free Qunari to be seen about, now and then. It's not like Minrathous.

It's nothing like Minrathous.

Bandits don't respect borders, either. In that little country house, where Con-Con's pained, rattling breaths echo at night, Gize kills a man for the first time in her life. It is both easier and harder than she expected.

"Those bastards. Hanging about here, bleeding us dry like we aint dry enough already. A few of the lads," the woman says, "were talking about trying to root them out of their little nest. We can't afford no mercenaries around here, m'dear. We have to stick together. You talk to me brother if you want to help."

She does. She helps while Con-Con fades, and fades, and still manages to look reproachfully at her fingernails when she comes to sit with him at breakfast. The look doesn't have the power it once did.

She is thankful to him.

And she is outgrowing him, day by day, not just surpassing him in height but surpassing him in courage; outgrowing the lessons of _don't look up, don't speak unless spoken to_ , outgrowing _cannot be helped, my dear_.

"She's a right help, our Gizella." the woman says.

_In me is the power of naming. I command the world with a word. I say I am blessed, and I am blessed. I name myself free, and I am free._

"Gize." she says, suddenly. "I prefer Gize."

She is nineteen years old, give or take, when she digs a grave in dry south Tevinter soil. The estate will go to his sister, she imagines. She takes for her inheritance a sword, a copy of _Summerlight_ and directions to a cousin of a friend of an uncle of a man who reckons she'd do well enough as a mercenary.

"Unless," he says, with a laugh, "you want to go back up to the posh twits in Mi'throus."

* * *

" _In me is the power of naming._ " she says, to The Iron Bull, who all things considered really ought to know the power in the names of things already, and splits a grin at his confusion. "I am a 'vint. You're as daft as your Pavus, sometimes."

Two offended noises in unison (Pavus has come to watch the sparring). Gize laughs. Around them, something strange and entirely new is rising from the dust. She wonders what it would look like if Con-Con painted it. If he'd feel the need to gild the edges, make everything fit to the way people think it should be, or if she could have given him the courage to paint the world as wild and true as it is.

_It cannot be helped, my dear_?

The girl will have to disagree.

She lifts her gaze from where it's fallen to the red dust at her feet. "You and your Corti." Pavus says, pouting.

Gize laughs. If there's anything more Tevene than the poetry of Corti, it's people complaining about the poetry of Corti. "You say that like you don't secretly want him to quote _Deep Waters_ at you."


	2. Drusa

Pavus wants to ask her sometimes, she knows, dumb posh twit questions like _where are you from_ ; probably because she looks Qarinus enough, like, short and dark and all that, slim enough to be a dancer, like one of them girls with the ten silk scarves. Can't be plump and get through windows, that's the thing. Can't get plump when you grow up eating the scraps of the scraps, neither.

She's not from Qarinus. She can do the accent, though. You don't hear it in him much, cause he posh. Maybe in the way he says _Bull_ when he's pissed (angry, or drunk, or both).

Drusa's from everywhere, and nowhere. Drusa's from wherever she needs to be to get where she needs to go.

She could be from Qarinus.

* * *

Drusa was from beside the sea, once.

Not the sort of beside the sea that involves pretty beaches and pretty houses and pretty things. The sort that involves fish guts and stink and slaves chanting to keep the rhythm as they haul cargo from the ships.

The chants start off simple but grow bolder when the supervisors slack off; _I'd ra-ther be in Ri-vi-an_ , it starts, but ends with _Blight take you all ma-ge bast-ards! Shar-tan fuck you up the arse!_ when nobody who cares is about to hear.

She learns a lot of curses, in the course of picking up what's dropped or unattended. People are so neglectful of their things, or so Mama says. Mama didn't birth her – didn't birth nobody, she says, what sort of place is this for a child, _venhedis_ \-- but she's Mama, all the same.

Mama aint kind, a lot of the time, but she means it in the right way. There's only slivers keeping Mama and Drusa apart from them rattling their chains on the dockside, and kindness won't teach a girl a thing. That's what Mama says. You don't need manners, Mama says. You just got to be clever, got to be quick. You be quick enough that nothing can catch you.

Mama dies, knives in the dark, and Drusa doesn't hang about long enough to find out _why_.

She runs, and she's quick enough that not even grief can catch her.

* * *

She meets Gize when she's from somewhere that's not beside the sea.

It's not like a thing you'd sing a song of. It's a job, and a bit of a shit job at that. It's a merc band that hires her. They've got the men for thumping chests and swinging swords but they don't have a Drusa for slipping in windows and lifting things. It all goes fine enough. Lot of mud. Drusa gets paid.

They don't have a Drusa, but they do have a Gize. She aint never seen a Qunari out of chains, not in any place Drusa's been from before.

She sure aint never heard one quote poetry at her. She thinks it's to try to get her into bed, until she figures out the husband, and then, confusingly, it turns out she's right all along.

Gize's funny, because she's so strong but she knows when not to hold too tight. Drusa's got to be clever, got to be quick. Quick enough that nothing can catch her. Quicker than knives in the dark.

But for a little while, it might not be so bad to be from wherever it is that Gize's from, right?

* * *

Her hair's gotten long. Used to be she didn't do that, because yanking, but then also Gize, and, well. She puts it in a bun, instead. Just be too clever and too quick to get hold of, that's the way.

Plus, you can hide things. Drusa's hair is full of secrets, and also trinkets. Always good to have something you can hide under your tongue or up your snatch, something that will pay a cell door open or a man to not took too closely at his cargo when it's heading somewhere that's else.

Not that Drusa's heading anywhere that's else.

Drusa has a room, all of her own. Drusa has dresses, that don't fit right because they were somebody else's, and for a posh twit Pavus sure don't throw many dances, but she has them anyway. Drusa has three and nearly a half dances' worth of silk scarves, and enough cushions that she's started adding them to the other rooms.

Drusa's not from Qarinus.

Maybe she could be from here.


	3. Avis

The worst scar is right on his back, under his shoulderblade. It's not the one that looks worst; that's probably the burn on his hip, the one Drusa says is shaped like a druffalo. But the fucker _itches_.

When anyone asks, he says it got it falling out of a tree.

Yeah, the burn, too.

They're all from _fucking_ trees, okay?

Pavus looks, sometimes, but he never asks. That's one of the reasons Avis hasn't yet gutted him.

* * *

"Your hair actually has a little bit of red in it." Pavus says thoughtfully. "I presumed it was a sort of dirty blond, but apparently most of that was actual dirt."

"Touch my hair and lose a hand." Avis says. It's a reflex. Or a warning about reflexes, he doesn't actually want to take Pavus' hand off.

"Who's dirty?" Drusa crows, squeezing between them. With the drinks.

Pavus sighs, heavy and obvious like he wants to make a point out of it, but does take his drink. "I was just expressing my opinion that Avis might actually clean up quite well."

"I will make you eat dirt if you try."

Drusa cuts his hair, whenever it starts to get in his eyes. He likes all these fuckers just fine, but nobody else is getting near him with what's basically a knife.

* * *

Once, he sees Pavus' eyes rest on his left arm, on the lines, all neat, and spurred by some nameless anger he lashes out with truth. "It's not always just slitting someone's throat, you know, blood magic. Sometimes they need lots of little bleeds, day after day after fucking day."

He means it to shock. He means it to hurt.

It hits harder than he expected. He knows Pavus hasn't ever touched blood magic in his life, wouldn't be standing this close to Avis and living if he had. He expects a _my apologies for staring_ or something, maybe one of those Pavus things where he gets angry about stuff that happened ages ago and didn't even happen to him.

Not a face like Avis just stuck a knife up into his heart and twisted. Not like it's somehow personal.

Then he goes, "My apologies, I didn't mean to stare."

Avis might not be all smart, but he can _pay attention_. He'll figure that one out.


	4. Ismene

A Minrathous woman is hard and sharp-edged, beautiful as a gemstone. She can freeze a man with a look-- in some cases, literally as well as figuratively.  
A Vyrantium woman is scholarly and well-read, never hurried, never flustered.  
A woman of Qarinus is sultry, passionate, hot-blooded, and various other such adjectives that apparently keep her brother coming back to that copy of _Qarinus Nights_ he seems to think nobody knows he stores under his mattress.

Vol Dorma? Vol Dorma breeds men who make good soldiers and women who make nice, placid wives. And fine, Ismene likes her curls and she likes her dress with the green sash, no matter how much a country bumpkin it may (apparently) make her look, but that doesn't mean her ambitions end at _become my mother_.

She gets her basic education in magic in Vol Dorma, and it's good as far as it goes, but anyone with _ambition_ needs to get into a circle, and as far as Ismene's chances are concerned, she's as much chance of flapping her arms to fly to the stars. When she is younger and more foolish she once says she wants to go. She overhears her parents talking about it, in the evening when they think she's asleep; counting their savings, counting the possibilities.

You hear stories about what people will do to get their children into a circle. Selling everything, even themselves. The next morning at breakfast she announces that she's decided she doesn't want to leave Vol Dorma. She'll get a job, instead. Help support the family.

Before she hears rumours of some mad southern mage taking on the Venatori, Ismene worked in an official position in the Vol Dorma archives, the sort of job that didn't really need a mage but would never be given to a Soperati. The sort that didn't really come with potential for advancement, especially for a woman.

"You'll be married off, soon enough, I suppose." her supervisor had said, more than once, variations on a theme she was already sick off by the second time he said it. "Pretty thing like you."

She'd looked at her curls in the mirror and wondered if she'd have to shave her head to get taken seriously. There were two duelling societies in Vol Dorma, one of which was Altus-only, the other of which didn't accept women, and to get a position with a Magister would have taken things Ismene simply wasn't willing to do. She could have joined the army, maybe. But who would tuck her brothers into bed at night? Who would help get the fires started in the ovens when the wood gets damp?

She practices by herself, instead. Reads books and curses the presumptions these Minrathous authors make. Makes friends with army mages in the barracks who teach her a trick or two, keeps an eye and an ear out for travelling scholars who might visit the archives, and learns to spot which ones will talk your ears off if you ask them to explain their research.

And then she meets Pavus.

She wants to be like that, to cast so easily. Elegant. Deadly. Unfortunately, he's also a terrible teacher. There's a certain impatience to him, masked poorly.

It's an elvish 'archer' who takes her under her wing and explains the practical parts. What to watch for, when to support the front-line fighters and when to just stick a 'flaming arrow' in somebody's throat.

She also keeps going "Oi, Krem, come help Curls here practice!" and then retreating to the sidelines with Skinner to make unsubtle commentary while Ismene messes everything up because half her brain is just going _look at those arms_ , but--

Yes, well, she supposes she has more than one thing to thank Dalish for.


	5. Marcus

Marcus is a soldier and the son of a soldier who was the son of a soldier and beyond that? Probably just generations of men with broad shoulders and scars they'll live to tell the tales of, if they're lucky, and women who are patient and strong and endure.

When he signs up, his mother doesn't tell him not to. She doesn't cry. None of the women Marcus knows cry. "If you're going to weep, weep salt." his grandmother says. "Salt is useful."

He falls in love at nineteen. He's sent to Seheron at twenty. He comes back to a grave and a son, and _compassionate leave_ is just long enough to fall in love with the tiny boy with his mother's eyes before they throw him back into the furnace.

He comes back with scars he can tell the tales of, and scars he never will, and when his son signs up, broad shoulders and nearly as tall as Marcus already, he doesn't tell him not to.

* * *

In Vol Dorma, he gets a reputation as a stern taskmaster on the training grounds. The lads will groan and nudge each other when they see him arrive, and he ignores it. The harder he is on them now, the more likely they'll live to tell the story of it. If--

There's no if. If you're going to weep, weep salt. Make something useful of your grief.

He rises to a position high enough that he gets invited to dine with the Magisters on occasion, if only at the Soperati table, officers of the barracks all trying not to roll their eyes when some cock in a robe who has never been within spitting distance of a battle gets up to talk about _the glory of the Imperium_.

_You've built your glory out of the corpses of my kin_ he thinks, heart of hearts, and when the salt of his grief cracks like the mud-flats in the summer-heat, it's anger beneath, as sharp as any blade.

* * *

Here is the thing, the great lie in their foundations; there's not that many mages in Tevinter, when you tot them all up. Individually they might be powerful, to varying degrees, but Marcus served in Seheron, listened well when they taught how to take out the qunari mages, what to watch for. In summary: any mage is vunerable, if you get close enough before they can set you on fire.

He probably shouldn't be applying this knowledge by fantasising about sticking his belt-knife through Magister Ossis' eye while the creepy bastard drones on about his expectations for recruitment, but there you have it. It keeps him from asking unwise questions like _And who the fuck do you think you're about to fight with my men?_ , at least.

* * *

There's always rumours. Soldiers particularly like the ones that involve some mage getting their comeuppances, which is why variations on the 'Ghost Elf' are now a fireside standard. Marcus uses them to pry the truth out of Ossis' demands; the Magisters go on about bandits or southern heathens or riots or some such, yanking most of his mages and some of his men out from under him, recruited to some 'higher cause'.

The rumours say there's another mage, a powerful one, standing against them. A man stands up in the marketplace  
to speak of the mage Andraste and the elf Shartan, of revolution and second comings, and is sharply immolated in a way that Marcus thinks speaks a great deal about _fear_.

Then the news of Brocchus comes.

It's a good thing he's in his office when it does, with nobody but a man he trusts to see him smile. It feels like Seheron; like counting your heartbeats, waiting for the moment that says _now,now_. He moves now, or he moves never. "Inform the Magisters that I will be moving to secure the roads leading into Vol Dorma." he says. "And find me somebody trustworthy to pass a message to that pretty lass who keeps asking all the questions."


	6. Rilienus

Rilienus' parents actually get along very well, although it is more in the manner of a cordial working relationship than anything that one would call _love_. They approach everything in the manner of a business agreement, or a joint research project, child raising included.

His mother was responsible for basic child rearing, education and socialisation. Languages and elemental magic. Dress and manners. His father became involved only when he was old enough to start learning the family business, taught him warding and law and thirty-seven ways to put a man in your debt without him realising it until it's too late. They discussed his progress over dinner in much the same way they might discuss how mother's garden was doing.

He does not hate them for it. They did teach him well, and Rilienus' feeling towards his parents is the faint admiration of a student for his teachers. There's not enough depth in that for hate to ever dwell. Even their choice of bride for him-- he can stand back, see the logic in it. Not a woman who would cling or demand affection Rilienus cannot give. Not one who would be inclined to invoke scandal over his inevitable neglect. A woman who would quietly do her duty and then depart to the seaside to live off his money and raise his son until he was old enough for Rilienus to take an interest.

(Maybe it's that that breaks him in the end; the knowledge that his duty doesn't end until he's taken a boy and bent him into the same mould that's served the Pacentis so well for so many generations)

When Rilienus invites Dorian Pavus to the library, it is because he has been told to. Not in so many words, directly, but he knows his duty when children his age visit. He is to show them the library, or, if they prefer, the garden, where his mother's spellwork teaches vines to trail over arches that defy gravity. He will steer the conversation in the way he has been taught, to find out their interests and other information that may be of use. He will always be polite and respectful, as befits a son of the Pacenti.

It is a surprise to find himself enjoying it. Dorian is interesting and has read lots of books, nearly as many as Rilienus, and can make fire in the shape of skulls which in itself is not that useful but which does indicate a degree of fine control which Rilienus can appreciate even though dead things are a bit scary.

"The son does appear to have potential." his mother says, over dinner. "His mother's ambition, on the other hand, is so naked it could get a job as a dancer in one of those bars off the Vivazzi Plaza."

"Ambition is a fine thing, in other people." his father says. "It's very expensive, for one. How did you find him, Rilienus?"

The question does not mean _did you have fun?_ "He has a good grasp of theory. Necromancy is his current main interest but he was able to contribute to my project despite having little prior experience with wards."

His mother arches an eyebrow at the last. His father chuckles, something approaching fondness. "He thinks he's found a loophole. We'll see."

"So." his mother says. "It sounds to me as if the family are agreed that the Pavus connection should be cultivated."

As the only Magister at the table, his father gets the deciding vote. Rilienus feels something odd as he waits to hear his answer, like a twist in his stomach. Normally he simply accepts his father's decisions on these matters. A Pacenti doesn't have friends, he has connections. A Pacenti knows the greatest magic lies in words and coin, not in blood. A Pacenti will never be Archon, but he can own one. A Pacenti accepts his father's word. A Pacenti does not stare at his father and think _please say yes, please say yes, please say yes_ with a fervour that might approach hysteria.

"I don't see the harm." his father says. "We should try to develop the connection before Vyrantium get their hooks in the boy."

He does not say _thank you_. He just bows his head in acknowledgement.

* * *

At the end of the summer, Dorian goes to the circle, and Rilienus continues his studies at home, writes to him, gets letters back complaining about how stupid everyone is. His father, who examines both incoming and outgoing letters the way he does all of Rilienus' correspondence, is pleased. It is important to develop confidence. The Pacenti are discreet. The Pacenti keep secrets. The Pacenti can be confided in.

Rilienus wishes he was allowed to be confided in without his father reading over his shoulder, but the Pacenti don't talk back to their fathers.

He writes about magic and his studies and further unsuccessful attempts to get into the warded room. He sends an appropriate gift for Dorian's birthday (the Vevusi book on Nevarran funeral rituals) and cordial invitations to visit for the summer, should Dorian wish. He commiserates with Dorian's feelings but does not write down any of his own.

His father is very much against the putting of opinions on paper. So Rilienus writes _Mother and I are to travel to Solas to visit the archives. We will stop in Vol Dorma to visit family friends. Have you ever been to Vol Dorma?_ and not _I hate travelling, Mother's friend in Vol Dorma smells awful and her house makes me sneeze and I'm not even allowed in the good parts of the archives anyway. I'd rather be at home in the library, or go to Vyrantium to see you_.

Dorian does come to visit again, in his holidays. Not for the entire summer, of course, but his father is a Magister and regularly in Minrathous, and while their fathers are not friends they have what his father calls an 'understanding', which at least means they are not directly enemies.

Rilienus likes it when Dorian comes to visit. He's not sure how to explain it; he gets all excited in the days leading up, trying to make up lists of everything he wants to talk about so he won't forget anything. He hates when Dorian leaves. Dorian writes about making a friend at Vyrantium and it gives him an odd feeling, like-- a little angry. Who is this stupid boy and why is Dorian friends with him?

His father just murmurs _interesting_ , and his mother helps him find the boy and his family in the books, but that doesn't help anything. The boy isn't a useful connection; his family are _Laetan_ , his father only became a Magister a few years ago. He's probably not smart enough to be Dorian's friend, anyway.

When he gets a letter from Dorian that mentions the boy, Rilienus does his focus exercises until the funny feeling goes away.

The feeling coalesces into something real the day Dorian tells him about the kiss. It's not a confession, at first. It's a question.

"Have you ever kissed anybody?" Dorian asks. Rilienus shakes his head, not sure where this is going. "Ever wanted to?"

By kisses he guesses Dorian means proper kisses, the sort you do with girls. His cousin claims to have kissed a lot of girls, although Rilienus doubts the claims and doesn't see the point. "No. Most girls are boring." Of late, they keep wanting to dance. Rilienus _hates_ dancing.

Dorian leans forward, even more secretive. "What about--" he pauses. "Well, not girls."

The odd feeling pulls at his stomach. Rilienus knows of such things, vaguely, whispers of scandals. "Haven't thought about it before." Although he is now. Dorian is beautiful, although Rilienus should probably not think of him that way. Hasn't let himself think about it. Kisses. Dorian. Dorian and kisses. Kisses and Dorian.

When Dorian whispers his secret, the name of the boy sends a spike of unfamiliar, incandescent rage through him. He hurriedly pushes it away through his magic, the way his father has taught him, but the only obvious place to push is into the wards, and he hears the noise of one sparking, hopefully not damaging anything. Dorian jumps. "It's just the wards settling." Rilienus lies. "They do that sometimes. Don't worry, I'm not going to tell anyone."

He doesn't. But his magic won't settle, even after Dorian leaves; he keeps thinking of Dorian, and kisses, and stupid Laetan boys who clearly aren't smart enough to touch _his_ friend, and that night his dreams are haunted in a way they've never been, Desire and Rage.

He knows how to deal with demons, but he goes to his father in the morning anyway. Sits neatly in his usual chair and waits for permission to speak. "I require some additional focus exercises."

His father looks up briefly from his papers. "This is about the Pavus boy, I suppose?" Rilienus' magic flares in panic and his father sighs and clamps down on it with a wave of his hand. "I have connections in Vyrantium. The boy he's been associating with is a known invert, of course there are rumours."

"I'm sorry." Rilienus says, staring at his feet.

"Thoughts such as these are not sins by themselves, Rilienus, you know that. As well as you know what _would_ be a sin."

That is a cue. "Permitting them to control me. Permitting others to gain control over me by knowing them. Acting upon them." he recites.

"If you want to help him," his father says, "if you want to protect him, you will learn to better control yourself. I will teach you, and you will guide him to make _better choices_."

Rilienus takes a deep breath, and nods. "Yes, sir."

"If it makes you feel any better, Magister Pavus has already had a quiet word in my ear. Your friend will be shortly moving to a more suitable learning environment, and after that, the other boy will find himself embroiled in a ruinous scandal that has _nothing_ to do with young Dorian Pavus."

It does help. Rilienus nods.

"You've been feeding the wards." his father says. "A good choice. Meditate on control and protection. The desire to protect is simple, and clean, and without sin. Let all other emotions be consumed by it. With time, these other, uglier feelings that distress you so will pass away."

Rilienus nods again.

And he tries.

He does try.

He provides a listening ear, tries and generally fails to get Dorian to be sensible, and tells himself it's not anger when he sees somebody else touch what's his, but concern. The desire to protect his friend. Halward Pavus gets stricter and stricter, and Dorian gets wilder and more reckless in response, and Rilienus wonders if his father could give him some sort of estimate of how long 'with time' should take, because all that's happening is he's getting better at hiding what he feels.

He ought to be, what with all the practice.

He does know. He knows there's nowhere and no way for what he desires to come true. Maybe, if he had courage. Maybe, if one of the times Dorian talks, annoyed and maybe a little drunk, about how he should just run away to Nevarra and live among the Mortalitasi or something, he were to say _I'll come with you_.

But courage, like ambition, is something the Pacenti only admire in others. It's not to be. It's not to be, it's not to be, it's not to be. If he says it enough times, if he waits long enough--

* * *

He tries sex, of course. He's a lot more discreet about it than Dorian.

It doesn't really help; he's not entirely surprised. If it was just physical desire, this would all be so much easier.

He also goes through a phase of reading _far_ too much Salvetti.

_I am well fed yet empty; for all I hunger for is the salt of you_

* * *

It's not that night in Qarinus that really ends it, for Rilienus. That is certainly the proximate cause.

It's the next time he sees Dorian, at a party of little consequence, the night Dorian says, pleasantly, "I hear congratulations are in order", and smiles like a door slamming shut. They do not speak again that night.

_It was not to be_ he thinks, and for once his foolish heart listens to him.

* * *

"Rilienus! Finally managed to drag yourself away from your paperwork?" Solanus smiles broadly; it stretches the scar on his cheek (dueling accident, aged fifteen; still holds a grudge against the man responsible). Beside him, his Laetan wife (little talent but pretty enough, rich father with ambitions of Magister grandchildren) smiles blandly. She doesn't like him, or her husband, but she knows the game, or thinks she does.

Solanus imagines they're friends. Rilienus finds his presumption mildly insulting, but he smiles back. "I couldn't resist. It has been far too long."

Solanus waves his wife off and leads Rilienus into the next room for a drink. There are a few others present, nobody of note. Not surprising, all things considered. Actually quite a decent vintage; certainly more decent than Solanus himself can truthfully afford. His father in law's money will run out soon, and then he'll want a loan, which he won't be able to pay back because he's an idiot and because another turn of the screw will have his miserable little slaving business collapse in on itself.

Which is absolutely fine, because they won't be lending him the money for any other reason than the little piece of land Solanus will sign away as collateral on the loan, thinking Rilienus is doing him a favour by not asking for more.

"Have you heard about Pavus?" Solanus says, leaning in conspiratorially.

He's a little late to that gossip. Rilienus steadies his expression and answers a different question. "Dorian? I haven't spoken to him in months." 

"That's because he's _left_ Tevinter, gone south." Solanus laughs nastily. "Maybe he's got a taste for dog-lords; or their dogs."

_Interesting point of law: there are at least three defence arguments I could use if I was to kill you where you stand_. " _Really_ , Solanus. There are ladies in the room."

Solanus makes a childlish face at him. "You're always so proper."

And Solanus is a fool who like most fools would rather believe the sordid versions of the story than think about obvious connections like Gereon Alexius' increasingly erratic behaviour of late. "Not a crime, surely?"

* * *

The day Rilienus collects the deed to the land that is now theirs, his father calls him into his office. "I would say _efficiently done_ , if I had asked you to drive the man to ruin rather than just acquire a property of interest."

He doesn't argue the point. "We can take advantage of the situation."

"We can take advantage of _any_ situation, Rilienus. I am asking what motivated you to create it."

He meets his father's gaze, silently.

"If you go after everyone who spreads spurious rumours about the Pavus boy, you'll end up taking on half of Minrathous." his father says, calmly. "Do try to limit it to those connections we can afford to lose."

"Yes, sir."


	7. Bull (and a growing assortment of 'vints)

Bull knows Dorian might be going to Tevinter long before the subject is actually brought up between them; knows it when Red asks him if the Chargers have ever had any dealings with a Vashoth mercenary named Gize, based in south Tevinter; knows it before that, in the times when Dorian speaks hesitantly, of all the things of Tevinter which aren't about magic and mages, of how Tevinter is more than that, of how the South will never know that if all they hear of is slavers and Venatori and Magisters.

He's learnt to see the shape of what Dorian really wants to say by looking at all the things he doesn't say; like that old code that hides itself in the blank spaces left in a page. In the spiralling silences between them Bull reads that Dorian fears leaving him behind; thinks he has to.

And naturally, when he points out this isn't true, there's a fight. Bull participates half-heartedly, lets Dorian think he's won, and wheedles two things out of Evelyn - first, that the Chargers go as backup, and second, that the moment it looks like this might be anything larger that a few lost Venatori, that she sends him in.

The answer to Red's question is this: no, only by reputation, and of that only that there's a fairly good 'vint mercenary band with a Vashoth at the helm, and aint that a funny thought.

He has _no_ idea. She's like a 'vint in the body of a qunari woman, quoting poets and fussing over her wine. _Dorian_ knows more Qunlat than Gize, and Dorian's Qunlat is generally limited to the sort of language that one wouldn't normally use in public. Except, of course, that Dorian _will_ use it in public, when he knows nobody else around will understand, sweet demands in the filthiest language possible. Bull sometimes regrets teaching him, but mostly really, really doesn't.

* * *

The first time he sees Dorian in Tevinter, he's struck by a couple of things.

The first being, of course, _damn_ , he looks good. Dorian all primped up and preening is always nice; Dorian smelling of sweat and smoke, streaked with that red Tevinter dirt and with the makings of at least a minor insurrection apparently coalescing around him, glaring at Bull for daring to turn up and snapping orders at him, _if you are going to hang about, you might as well make yourself useful_ , that's-- mmm, that's very, very nice.

The second thing he's struck by is an actual pebble, hurled at him by a young 'vint who looks like she could well be Dorian's sister. That's what he gets for letting himself get distracted.

"He aint liquid." she says, with a grin. "You can't drink him, thirsty boy."

He grins back at her. "Want to bet?"

* * *

Little elf, explosive temper. The name is on his lips for a moment before he lets it go.

Concentrates, instead, on who Avis is, rather than who he is not.

Sera would be a better comparison, anyway; the pranks, the rude jokes, the way he goes for the overkill when some guy who deserves to die more times than any one man can be killed says something like _she was only a slave_. The same mysterious reluctance to be hurled into the back ranks of the enemy like a bomb made of angry elf and sharp things.

"He must never, ever be introduced to Sera." Dorian says, firmly.

Bull imagines this, and thinks the _absolute opposite_. "Aw, why not? I think they'd get along."

Dorian makes a sharp motion with his hand, that means _stop right there_. "That very thought _haunts my dreams_."

* * *

He's actually away when Ismene turns up, and his first introduction to the name is before his introduction to the woman. It comes in the form of Stitches teasing Krem about her and Krem punching him, gentle-ish, with the arm that's not bleeding. "You jerks are the worst wingmen ever." he says.

"A mage, huh? Just make sure you get a room with curtains well away from the bed." is his contribution; Krem kicks him, but on his good side.

* * *

Marcus speaks sometimes, of his time in Seheron.

So does Bull.

They speak of it in much the same way; tactics, attack patterns, defence strategies. When it is relevant.

They do not speak of: who lived, who died, which memories make them wake with one hand already reaching for a weapon. Not to each other, at any rate. There is quicksand in those memories, and they take care to stay on safer ground.

This means, when the topic wanders away from immediate necessities, they often end up talking about Dorian. Marcus gives him looks that wouldn't be out of place on a Tamassran, and generally fusses like one, and Dorian curses them both and puts those walls of his up whenever the jokes turn to how Marcus appears to think he's just about everybody's dad.

* * *

Dorian's little friend is wound so tight Bull figures something's gotta give. So Bull notices right away when he uncoils a little when Marcus gets close. Dorian is utterly blind to it all, wilfully so.

Marcus just smiles sweetly at him when he mentions the curtains-- apparently Krem's already been telling stories. "Rilienus doesn't favour fire." is all he says, in that casual way 'vints have when it comes to magic.

Rilienus himself, when Bull mentions how relaxed he's been looking lately, coughs lightly and spends a moment longer than required tidying his already pretty immaculate desk. It's interestingly similar to the way Dorian used to hide behind his books at times. "You do remember that among my duties is organising supplies, including the alcohol?" he says, after a moment.

"Wasn't actually going to mention anything to Dorian." Bull answers.

Rilienus' lips curl into a little smile. "Cassia, would you mind stepping out for a moment?" he says, to his hovering bodyguard. "The Iron Bull and I have some business to discuss."

He taps his fingers on a folder Bull recognises. Only once Cassia's closed the door behind her, does he say "Information for a friend of ours?"

"There have been three attempts to break through my wards this week alone." Rilienus says. "Eventually, somebody's going to get hold of something. I think it would be best if it were on our terms, not theirs."

And, unspoken but obvious, Rilienus will be the one they'll go for. That would be how Bull would do it, after all. Pretty much everyone else who knows what's going on with their Tranquility-curing plans is either ex-Inquisition or has 'murdering Venatori in great numbers' as a hobby or both. Rilienus' magic, from what Bull understands of Dorian's descriptions, is focused on defence, and the sort that takes time and care to use properly. He's not built for a fight. Get his bodyguard away from him, wait for a moment of distraction-- or create one. If Rilienus dropped his defences, it would only take a moment. Well, it wouldn't take Bull more than a moment.

Marcus might just kill him, but Bull knows how stubborn these 'vints get. If he refuses to help, Rilienus will smile and agree it's a bad idea and then probably go ahead and do it anyway. "What do you need from me?"

* * *

"So, I hear you've got a fancy title now. _The Redeemer_."

Dorian glares at him. "I am going to _murder_ Rilienus. He's spreading that nonsense on purpose."

Rilienus actually refers to his rumour-spreading as _reputation management_ , which is the 'vintiest damn thing Bull's ever heard of, and has roped Bull and a large percentage of the Chargers into assisting. "Somebody's got to be the hero, and you've got the profile for it. Marble, right?"

"I expect you to inform me the _moment_ Rilienus starts bringing in sculptors." Dorian replies, immediately. "This whole thing is sufficiently out of control as it is. Do you know he has Varric writing overblown _true stories_ about us for some Orlesian rag?" He's pacing, unsettled.

There's a lot of things he could say to that, but Bull settles for a distraction. "Think they'll do _me_ in marble?"

No way _that_ bait won't get a bite. "I shall have the sculptor put you in a decent outfit for once." Dorian declares, grandiosely. "With a shirt. Artistic license."

"Aren't a lot of the classical Tevinter statues _naked_?" Bull points out, and poses appropriately. Flexes a little.

"You are awful and you look _ridiculous_." Dorian says, but in the pause before he says it, and in the pause after, Bull reads a thousand confessions. "I never meant to drag you into this."

"I'm too damn big to drag anywhere." he says, and then remembers something the 'vintiest damn Vashoth in existence taught him recently. "I rode as far as I could, and then I walked the rest. _I set heart's compass homeward, and here you are_."

Dorian's eyes go wide and dark. Clearly Bull needs to learn some more about this Salvetti guy. "I am going to ban Gize from teaching you poetry."

"Do it in the morning."

(Dorian somehow never gets around to that one, probably because Gize also taught Bull all the naughty bits)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That rounds out the Reformation side of things (I might do Dieter, too). Next up: what's the plural of Lyceus?


	8. Gemini

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unreliable narrator pollux lyceus

Castor is forever getting into trouble.

They are too smart for their own good, Mother says, that's the problem. Their family are good, solid Laetan, not rich, not poor. They take up the sort of jobs Laetan mages take, they marry others like them, from good solid Laetan families who know their place.

Pollux, at least, has ambitions of the right sort. The army is not an inappropriate choice, for a boy of his background. Mother worries, but he's smart, and quick, and his tutors say he'll do well.

Castor, unfortunately, has no interest in the _appropriate_ sort of ambition. He slips out of training to talk his way-- lie his way-- into some Altus' afternoon _salon_ , or to go drinking with Magister's sons, and mostly gets away with it. Now and again, he'll try to sneak his way into the wrong party and come home bruised, but grinning.

It terrifies Pollux. “They will _never_ accept you, you realise that? We have neither the blood nor the money to make it in those circles. You're going to insult the wrong Magister, one day, and get yourself _killed_.”

Castor just snorts at him, and says things like “Yes, I should do something more sensible, like sign up to get myself smushed into a bloody pulp in Seheron, perhaps.”

And because that is a sore point between them, and because he can't argue with it, Pollux doesn't say any more.

Besides, if he pushes the issue Castor refuses to argue and just starts quoting Salvetti at him, instead.

* * *

Cas wakes him up one morning, climbing in through the window. They have separate rooms, these days, a nod to their ages, that they are men now, not boys, although in practice, why bother. Pollux's is closer to climb into from the garden, so that's where Cas sleeps, much of the time.

“Pol!” he says, grinning, weaving his way across the room and clambering, ungainly with drink, onto Pol's bed. Attempts to climb in, still with his _boots_ on. The ridiculous ones with the silver buckles.

Pollux smacks him, and because he loves his brother it's with a plain hand not a fistful of ice. Although he does consider it. That'd sober him up. “You're drunk.”

“With _love_.” Cas declares. “Why so cruel?”

Pollux sniffs the air. “Smells like wine to me.”

“Oh, that too.” His brother has come home speaking of women, before, but he smiles a smile of a different stripe, this night. “Her name's Astraea. I'm think I'm going to marry her.”

Too late, Pollux considers what sort of woman his brother might have met at a party where he drank wine and wore his most fashionable robes and those particular boots. “Please tell me you are not dallying with some magister's daughter.”

Cas sticks a finger to his lips, making an exaggerated sshhhhhh noise, and laughs when Pollux drops his head into his hands and groans. “Relax, Pol. What's the worst that could happen?”

* * *

He bites the inside of his cheek, the whole time he's on the ship. A pinpoint of pain, to help him focus. Five hours from the moment his feet are first set on Seheron soil he kills for the first time in his life.

Nothing has ever been easier.

They say Seheron breaks some men; it is the making of Pollux Lyceus. He hides under a cloak of appropriate ambition, for a man of his class, and thinks day and night of the man whose fault it is, of the man he's going to kill.

* * *

He returns as Magister Lyceus, but he is Laetan-of-no-pedigree-Magister Lyceus, and the limitations of that chafe like nothing else, when he's so close. He is a Magister, and Cas is _property_ , of the man whose fault it is, and he refuses to so much as meet with such a creature of no note as Pollux Lyceus, let alone accept any sort of challenge.

That's when he meets Magister Bellicus Pacenti. He is very sympathetic of Pol's situation, and very willing to assist, and all Pol has to do is assist Magister Pacenti in return, with a few little tasks. A few minor things.

He does _a few minor things_ he probably ought to regret, to get that duel. To win it. To once more clutch at his brother-- at the husk of his brother, at least. They are both changed, too changed; Castor, at least, has an excuse.

There is no room for regret. If he doubts his path for a moment, his resolve will falter. He cannot stop now. He cannot stop until it is all put right. If it burns the heart right out of him, so be it. If that's what it takes.

And Magister Pacenti is so very willing to provide the assistance for Pol's research, and so willing to provide the funds to make sure Cas is taken care of, and really, it's not as if he asks anything that Pol can't do. People die so easily. If now and then they die because somebody whispered in Pol's ear, who's to say they didn't deserve it, anyway?

He starts by fixing Castor's clothes-- he'd never wear brown, so dull-- no, proper robes, in blue and green, with clasps of silver, the sort he always favoured. Good boots. Honey-wine and bookshelves laden with every damn word that Salvetti ever wrote.

Cas still comes to sleep in Pol's room; the less time he's out of Pol's sight, the better.

He never forgets to take his boots off before he climbs into bed.

* * *

Pol does not expect to be asked to involve himself in routing out this 'Reformation'. “Why me? It's a few escaped slaves and meddling southerners, anyone could manage it.”

“Do you think so?” Magister Pacenti says, with one of his creepy little smiles. The sort of smile that usually precedes him arranging for Pollux to kill someone. “Nevertheless, dear boy, I would like to see this matter handled by someone I can trust. That's why I put your name forward. I foresee the potential for things to become... complicated.”

Sounds simple enough to him. Some Altus brat who thinks he's above the law stirring up trouble; if what Pacenti means is that he wants someone down there who isn't going to think twice before putting a bolt of lightning through said brat's skull, then Pollux Lyceus can do that. Ever since Cas, he's been nothing but capable of all manner of things.

And of course, unspoken: what with all he owes to Pacenti, he will do that, if it's required.  
(In the months to come, he will look back at this conversation and laugh at his own naivety).


	9. Gize/Drusa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Gize and Drusa met

Drusa learnt lifting purses from Mama, and learnt lifting skirts from a Lady-In-Waiting (the waiting she been doing being by the side of a road between the docks and the tavern) who fucked lads for coin and lasses for fun.

It was fun, too, for a while. Drusa never figured what happened to her; just, one day, she weren't. Mama said nothing ever lasts forever, so don't go getting used to it. That weirdo elf who always hung out by the docks watching the ships come and go said: tide goes in, tide goes out, only the sea is changeless.

That's stupid, Drusa told him, the sea changes all the time. Sometimes it's calm, sometimes it's stormy. You spend all your time here and you don't know that? Also, I seen slavers on one of them ships, give me a coin and I'll tell you which one.

You're an interesting child, the elf says, pressing the coin into her palm. What a pity I'm only here to observe.

Drusa is young enough that there are people who can be tricked into thinking she's a child, old enough to be paying her own way, and she has never been in love.

Love, Mama says, is a chain, and there's enough of those to go round in Tevinter without looking.

* * *

Mama's long gone, and right now Drusa's gone too, and a girl the local thiefking knows as Sparrow is picking up a few jobs in a place that's far from anywhere, while Drusa grows her hair out until she looks a little less like the sketch on the wanted notice.

Drusa aint never been chained yet, and she doesn't fancy today as the day to start.

Mercs, they tell her. Need a few locks picked, a few trap-wires snipped.

They don't tell her about the qunari.

She's seen qunari before, even free ones, they work on the ships, sometimes. Men, though, they are. Big muscles and lots of grunting. Probably. Drusa's never got close enough to any of them for conversation, not that she's interested, and she's always presumed they didn't have pockets worth picking.

Gize's got the big muscles, but she doesn't grunt. She's got an interesting voice, hint of Minrathous in there, sort of cultured-like. Drusa never heard of a posh qunari before.

“Sparrow,” she says, in a quiet moment. “Like the poem. It suits you.”

“Like the _bird_.” Drusa points out. “Who knows poetry?”

Gize smiles. “It's Corti. Surely you know some Corti.”

“What, like that Tevinter Rising stuff all the soldiers like? All about penises. Not interested.”

“You're thinking of Corti the _younger_ ,” Gize says, making a face, “and that's not what it's about.”

“Really? All that thrusting of swords and sturdy spears raised upwards and all that, you're telling me the guy who wrote that didn't have only one thing on his mind?”

Gize laughs, and that's even prettier than all the muscles.

* * *

She nicks some of Gize's stuff, just to test; Gize pins her by one hand against the wall and takes it back. Drusa didn't really hide it anywhere interesting, granted, just in pockets.

Gize's all contradictory. Big muscles, big sword, but likes all that literary stuff, talks all posh. She holds Drusa the same way. Strong, no way to escape; but careful, no bruises, either. Drusa likes that.

Even the bird-themed poetry's sort of growing on her. A little bit. Should probably point out her name's not really Sparrow, eventually.

* * *

Unfortunate thing, though: Gize's married. Drusa doesn't have anything against marriage, or for that matter, adultery, but she's always wary of men who might think they get the right to anything just because you might happen to be fucking their wives.

Some of them, she's practically providing a public service. It's like lockpicking, right, you don't learn it by reading books, you've got to get your fingers in there and get a bit of practical experience.

She doesn't get the impression that Gize's lacking in the practical experience part, at least judging from the content of the flirting, but still, she holds back. To keep out of trouble, you got to case the area good before you go picking any locks; holds for treasure and panties both.

Then she sees Gize's husband with some lad's hand down his pants, and Gize laughing, watching them. She gives him a kind of nod, just tiny, and they disappear off down the corridor to find, Drusa guesses, a bed or something. “You not going to go watch?”

Gize shrugs. “Not my thing, watching. Not his, being watched, either, so don't you go poking your nose in anywhere.”

Never, ick. “Too much sausage for my liking.” Drusa tells her, and then sits a little closer, because Gize's a puzzle-lock and she reckons she's just found the keypiece. “You don't mind it, though.”

“Love is not a chain, Sparrow.” Gize says; she always sounds like she's quoting something when she's like this. Probably poetry. Drusa's not going to ask because she doesn't want the explanation.

“So, is it the same for you? Because I don't like being watched, personally.”

“He won't be walking into any room I'm in tonight, if that's what you're asking.”

Right. “Want to fuck, then?”

* * *

She's a little afraid Gize will go all beds-of-flower-petals or some such on her, but it ends up being the wall again, at least to start with. Cold against her back, warm where Gize's hands are on her, where her leg hooks over Gize's shoulder. She's seen Gize punch a man out with one strike, when quarters were too tight to swing a sword, quoting at him instead of cursing like a sensible person; she remembers that, with those fingers inside her, with that tongue tracing poetry on her skin.

The other hand holds Drusa's hip tight, but it don't feel like a chain at all, so Drusa will allow it.

The bed, then, to return favours, because it's easier, geo-metric-ally speaking. Nice big thighs, with plenty of room for Drusa to lie down between them. A hand in her hair, cautious, like a question. Been a while since she's had her hair this long; usually not enough for anyone to pull on. It aint bad. “I'll punch you somewhere if I want you to let go.”

“The clearer signals are the best.” Gize agrees, smiling down at her.

Been a while, too, since Drusa actually had a bed and the time to do things proper, and Gize's a right juicy treasure, so she takes her time. Wants to thieve every last secret out of her, every place that makes every kind of noise creep past her lips. Gets, in the end, an actual curse-word, barely whispered.

Definitely been a while since she's laid with someone who makes her think yeah, want to do this one again. Well, it's a, what's-the-word, novelty, aint it? Her first qunari. If that's all it is, it's nothing like a chain.

That is what it is, right?

She doesn't lay down to sleep with just anyone, nice thighs or not, so when they're done she grabs her clothes, plots which of her places she'll sleep in tonight. People who always sleep in the same place are kind of asking for a knifing, in Drusa's opinion. Gize doesn't say anything about it. Just passes things over from where they've fallen. “We should do this again, don't you think? That is, if you're so inclined.”

Drusa pauses. There's something, one thing. A small thing. She shouldn't say it. No need. Might get in trouble. “Sure. Just, if you're going to be saying my name like you were before, you should be saying the right one. Not Sparrow. I'm Drusa.”

Gize smiles, widely. “Oh, that's lovely. You know, there's a superb little-known poem by--”

Drusa throws a pillow. “No poetry! And no telling anyone! And don't get it in your head I mean anything by it.”

“Drusa,” Gize says, on a soft exhale, and _oh_ , that does sound right, “thank you for confiding in me. I'll keep it safe.”

Says it like she thinks Drusa trusts her, and the worst thing is, Drusa might.


End file.
